Harsh Light of Day
by crackers4jenn
Summary: Skitters off canon during Harsh Light of Day. Spike gets to spend a nice weekend retreat in Giles' bathroom sooner than expected, and minus a chip. Angel doesn't get the ring. Buffy remains cranky.


There was no motive in his mind, none what-so-ever, when he pulled up to the Sunnydale campus, other than the one that'd topped his list since he first stepped foot into this godforsaken town to begin with: kill the Slayer.

The Gem of Amara was just a friendly little benefactor.

He caught sight of her soon enough, a few paces ahead, tugging at the arm of some frat boy. Looked all miserable and desperate, her face a shade paler than usual. Down wind, he could hear their conversation just fine. She was getting a brush-off. The Almighty Slayer… not quite woman enough for Joe College and his All American Good-Looks. How truly pathetic.

By the time she came trudging down the sidewalk, all drawn in and worse for wear, he was near vibrating with adrenaline, predatory instincts making his insides swirl. Vulnerability. He could damn near _taste_ it from where he stood, wafts of it drifting towards him, grabbing at him, tugging.

He couldn't stand it anymore.

"Slayer," he purred, side-stepping into view.

In the half-second it took for her to recognize him, he'd already gained the upper-hand. He wasn't more than a handful of space away, blocking both her exit path and a chance at a decent escape. Couldn't turn and hightail it, not unless she wanted to face off with a block of cinder first. Couldn't go through him.

"Spike?"

"_That_," he made point to mention, "was pathetic." Her face screwed together, girly anguish written all over them wretched features of hers, and it made everything all the more better. The laugh he let loose was as much amusement as it was pure joy. "Who knew you had it in you?"

He saw something flicker beneath the color in her eyes, something dark, and it only made him want to take it another step further, to make it hurt that much more. Let the bitch get a taste of the pain she'd all too happily inflicted on him. Pain she made _Dru_ inflict on him.

Then it registered--really registered--what exactly was playing out before her eyes: a daylight encounter, one minus that embarrassing (not to mention pesky and untimely) habit of Spike bursting into flame.

Her mouth flapped open, close, open again. All very attractive. "How are you--"

Never one to miss the opportunity to flaunt his victors, Spike proudly displayed his hand. "Lookey what I found. The Gem of Amara. Took a lot of effort, me tearing up this town from the inside out, but… seems worth it, don't you think?" His eyes flared, mouth curling into a thin, teasing smile. "Makes my eyes sparkle."

"You're--"

"Not combusting into a pile of dust. You catch on quick."

The confused look she wore shifted quickly into shock, and it was such a wonderful, delightful turn of events that he couldn't help but grin. And then every little line in her face went and tightened, shock sliding just as easily into determination.

"Can't kill me, Slayer," he said, as the dots were fully connecting in that itty bitty brain. "Not while I'm wearing this."

Tired of the song and dance already, he made his move. Lightning quick, before she had time to let loose a snappy repertoire or whip free a fail-safe stake, he attacked. Didn't care, either, of the spectators. College kids mulling about, in and out of buildings, their sunny laughter and carefree conversations a constant soundtrack around them. They were barely a passing thought.

She fell to the ground with the first of his attack, landing on her back and staying that way, even as he stood at her feet, hovering over her, bouncing on the balls of his heels in giddy anticipation. Could feel the blood flowing through his body, could feel that dip in control where intent to kill started to interfere, blur with the natural instinct of wanting to toy with his food.

Not paying close enough attention, he missed the moment she regained composure. Missed the split second where she swept her foot in a neat arc, knocking his feet out from beneath him and sending him to the earth below.

Put them back on even ground. That move. Settled the playing field, at least temporarily.

Not a moment later, however, Spike was back on his feet, and the Slayer, cradling an injured arm, staggered to her own as well.

"Overheard you and the frat boy," he said once they were both upright, and that flicker--that spark--flared behind her eyes again. Good. He wanted to needle her, good and proper, 'til he felt like he'd burned off some of the trouble she'd caused him. "What's the matter, Slayer, you cling too close--send him packing?"

She launched forward, this laughable attempt at hitting him. She missed widely.

"Or maybe," he said, rocking towards her, his tongue poking at the back of his teeth, "it's the other way around? Maybe you're the distant type. All hung up over the great sodding Forehead."

Finally something snapped. "Shut up," she warned through a tightly clenched jaw.

Spike took a step forward, leaned down low. "Can't handle the truth?"

She lashed out, colliding with him and sending them falling backwards, together. He landed first, hard, and she followed soon after, landing on top of him without invitation to do so. Caught up in the tangle of loose limbs, she squirmed and wiggled, trying to find a solid surface that she could gain some purchase on and pry herself free.

With something akin a growl rumbling in the back of his throat, he grabbed her by the arms and rolled them over, so that it was her on the bottom, her in the lesser position.

She gasped and wheezed, let out all the air in her lungs in one great breath, then sucked it back in. He had her wrists, thin little things, barely bigger than a twig, and he pinned them beside her.

They'd fallen out of sight, into the one rare spot where students weren't roaming about freely like a bunch of wild animals at a petting zoo.

"Get off me," she had the balls to order, which, given the circumstances, only made him smile.

He shushed her, teasingly, let his body settle atop hers so that she was nestled nice and snug beneath his thighs. "Quiet, Slayer. Don't want to make a fuss, do we? Might… get the wrong attention."

"Right, okay, so instead I'll just lay her like a good willing victim and let you… what? Bite me? Stare at me to death?"

He snorted. "Option A, and, yeah, that sounds about right."

She matched his snort with her own, adding a little huff. "You're deluded."

"You're pinned."

"I've got a stake," she shot back, then made a little grimace-y face that accompanied the squirming of her hips as she tried to get a feel on just where that stake was.

Lodged beneath her, of course, and she realized that at about the same time he did.

Pleased with the unfolding of events, he couldn't help but lean forward, lean until she jerked her head away at his closeness, pinching those prudish lips closed. "Wouldn't do you any good, anyway." She tugged, grunting with the effort of trying to break free. It was pointless. "You can't kill me. Not you, not your stakes… not even Mr. Sunshine, broiling over our heads. I'm… what's the word. Oh yeah. _Immortal._"

He barely had time to register the hate in her eyes, or the malicious intent lurking behind it, before her forehead slammed into his, making him rear back in pain. Bloody bitch! It was a sharp, focused pain that raked down his spine, that felt like she'd bludgeoned him in the skull with something much more thick and much more solid than her own melon-sized head.

By the time the red had stopped swirling in front of his eyes and the white hot pain ebbed to something not entirely incapacitating, she'd managed to wrench an arm free, and it was inching dangerously close to his free hand, the one wearing the ring.

Spike snatched her by the wrist before she could do anything, locking her in place again, this time with more force. "Wrong move, Slayer," he growled, low and deep. His head throbbed, this barely tolerable thunder, and that only pissed him off more. Stupid bitch wasn't supposed to get any licks in.

By now she had a slick sheen of sweat on her forehead, her bangs wet and flattened across her face. Which, by the way, despite everything was a wonderful color of red, frustration bubbling at the surface in a welcoming flush.

"I hate you," she seethed, glaring.

"God, not that! How will I go on… after I kill you, and all your annoying friends… your Watcher…" He dipped his head again, dipped it so that his mouth rested near her ear, where she could feel the heat in his words as he promised, "…your mum."

A strong jerk of her hips had him recoiling a little, that move sending her pelvic bone jarring into the zipper of his jeans, which jarred into other, more sensitive parts of him with much less finesse.

"If you touch _any_ of them--"

"You'll, what?" he cut her off. "Rattle your ghostly chains from the great beyond? _Ohhh._"

"I'll kill you," she swore. "I will hunt you down if you so much as _look_ at anyone I know--"

He started to laugh, his chest rumbling against hers in a way that made every little inch of her stretched beneath him tremble along. "Forgetting one thing, aren't you?" He made a great show of letting their surroundings sink in, letting his weight settle atop hers more heavily. Then: "You'll be dead."

Her struggles began all over again, with renewed force, and she flopped like a fish out of water underneath him. The bony part of her knees collided with the fleshy part of his thigh, her elbows poking into his ribs like a battering ram, again and again. Her head strained back, neck stretching, muscles lined all in a row.

Spike sat up, quick, stopping her in her efforts. Sat on the curve of her thighs, kept his own locked tight so that she couldn't squirm away, and moved her pinned arms to the side of her head, giving her less wiggle room. It was strategic, yeah, but that didn't mean he wasn't enjoying himself.

Frustrated, she let loose a battle cry that sounded something akin to, "Agghhhhh!" An arch of her back, a strong jerk of her hands. Clenched jaw and teeth ground together to complete the picture.

He was laughing, smiling, sitting on top of her like a cowboy attempting to break in a bucking bronco. He could hear her heartbeat thudding in his ears, quick and scattered, faster and louder the harder she fought. Could feel it beneath his own fingers at the pulsepoints on her wrists, like a sugar-happy thump-thump-thump that tapped a tune to her own slow and imminent demise.

"Look at you," he mocked. "Our girl's a fighter."

She grunted, slamming her shoulder into the ground. Then sagged, like the wind went and blew right out of her sails. The proverbial white flag. Easy as that. "I'm not your girl," she muttered.

"Is that right?" He glanced down at their respective bodies, crudely. Her chest was heaving, her forehead beaded with the sweat of his efforts. The way she was breathing was more than a little rapidly, great big puffs of air being pulled in and pushed back out through slightly parted lips. Lips that were pinkening with all the extra blood flow of both adrenaline and a tiring, well-fought match

Too busy taking stock of each Slayer part laid out before him, Spike didn't catch the elbow that ended up tapping neighbors with the side of his head, blindsiding him and knocking the vision clear out from beneath him, so all he saw, all he felt, was black.

Then the world went weightless, everything around him disappeared, and all he was aware of was an upstairs throbbing that rang and pounded with all the incessancy of a loud, never-ending door knocker. Vaguely, from some far away place, he felt a shift, a tug, and then the dull weight of something settling cozily atop his stomach.

As he pulled himself out of that black world, out of that painless place where the door-knocking was his only concern, he realized that the something on his stomach was not actually a something, but a _someone_--someone with tiny black boots and long blonde hair and a surprisingly tight ass.

The Slayer was a blur of color leaning over him, a flurry of wind-swept hair that tickled across his neck and traced the curve of his jawline. It was only then that he noticed the sharp prick of something whittled, hard, and most definitely wooden poking at his coats' insides. There was the instant fight-or-flight panic that welled at the knowledge that a stake was pressing intimately against him, and only the slightest of exhales would send it hurtling through cloth and skin alike to nestle snuggly with that bundle of useless organ buried inside his ribcage, dusting him, but then he remembered: the Gem of Amara.

The Slayer remembered at about the same time he did too, apparently, because her free hand took a dive towards his own wearing the ring.

"Don't," he said before he could think better, more desperate than threatening. What the hell did he care, though? He'd be willing to play the poor victim vampire forced into the role of vengeful mortal enemy because his big bad grandsire made his girlfriend break up with him if it earned him a little leverage.

She paused, but it only lasted a second. Then her fingers were gripping his own, too intimately for Spike's liking, but that thought only briefly flared because, oh, yeah, the bitch was twisting at the ring to get it to slide down and off his fingers, which meant that any second now the opening course of flambee'd Spike would be served, and served rather burnt and charred with a nice sprinkling of ashes as a side garnish.

Desperation swelled, thus:

"You'll burn."

That stopped her. She kept her hold on the ring, though, this sort of warmth and heaviness at his knuckles.

He pressed on. "What'd'you think'll happen the moment that ring comes off? Bye-bye, Spikey. And bye-bye, Slayer, too, 'cause I'm waging to bet it'll set me off like a Christmas torch--and guess who'll come tagging along for all the rollicking fun of instant incineration?"

She weighed the pros and cons in her head that probably went a little something like:

Pro: Spike dead. Big yay!

Con: Me dead. And if he's right, the big burning fire thingy''ll probably ruin my _hair_. Not that!

Decision made, the Slayer shrugged. And then slung a heavy fist in his direction that landed solidly with the brunt of his forehead, knocking him out cold.

TBC


End file.
